


Proper Pup

by beetle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dogs, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Blushing Alistair (Dragon Age), Dom Alistair (Dragon Age), Dom Male Surana, F/F, F/M, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Sub Alistair (Dragon Age), Sub Male Surana, Switch Alistair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 14:37:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10493043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Alistair Grey-Warden’s ex-wife, Morrigan, bought their daughter ahuge, badly-behaved, nigh-unmanageable puppy. Leliana loves the beast dearly, but Alistair can’t stand it. Leave it to Morrigan to also present a solution to the problem she caused, in the form of a business card for an obedience school, run by a highly-recommended dog-whisperer named Daelyn Surana.Unbeknownst to both Alistair and Daelyn, the beastly dog isn’t the only one who’s going to learn to sit, stay, walk, heel, andcomeon command.





	1. In Which Alistair Has Two Problems

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern AU. A cracktastic one, if I do say so, myself (and I do). Heed the tags for warnings, as well as notes.
> 
> For Stitchcasual and MurderousLady for encouraging me. Blame _them_ for this terribleness! I'm just an innocent writer!

 

“You know, for such a seemingly intelligent dog, you’re a bit of a moron, aren’t you?”

 

The large, as-yet unnamed puppy—large for _any_ breed, and this mutt probably had a little bit of _everything_ in him, including Yeti—blinked up at Alistair Grey-Warden and growled. Said growl was surprisingly low and intimidating. Or would have been, if the damned dog didn’t also look chagrined, as well. And clownish, with bits of white and grey fluff around his big muzzle.

 

Suddenly, the dog hiccupped, loud and rather comical, and a bit of white and grey _stuffing_ flew out of its toothy maw. Then it yipped and snapped at the fluff, catching it between its teeth and slurping it back down to join the bulk of its brethren in the dog’s stomach.

 

Sighing, Alistair could only cover his face with his free hand, the other being taken up by the dog’s retractable leash. The animal didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed of its bad behavior.

 

“You’re a bloody calamity, dog.”

 

“Woof!”

 

“Yes, that, too.”

 

It was so very _tempting_ , for Alistair, to just put his foot down and the beast out—take it to a shelter and let it be _someone else’s_ problem—but even after just three weeks, his daughter would have an absolute _fit_ if the beast were to be taken away from her.

 

And, at eight years old, Leliana Grey-Warden had her Daddy wrapped around _all_ her tiny, sticky fingers, not just the littlest one. The only thing that would displease Alistair’s little princess more than finding out the dog—really, they should just _name_ the mutt _Dog_ , since that was the only name it knew to answer to after weeks of being called that in lieu of a proper name, like Harold or Tristan—had eaten her third-favorite Stuffy-Guy doll would be finding out said doll had been eaten _and_ the eater sent away for keeps.

 

Sighing again, Alistair dropped the leash on the coffee table and glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was almost seven. Past his and Leli’s dinner-time, and the dog’s, too. But of the three of them, _only_ the dog had had his dinner. And a Stuffy-Guy for pudding.

 

“What am I going to do with you, you moronic mutant mutt?” Alistair muttered at the dog, squatting so that they were almost eye to eye. Really, the dog was _ridiculously_ large for a dog, period, never mind a puppy less than nine months old. Alistair supposed it had some mastiff in it, as well as boxer and pit bull. Maybe even some Rottweiler. . . . “You’re smart enough to know better, but you obviously just don’t care that you’re being a bloody nuisance . . . isn’t that right?”

 

The dog merely blinked at Alistair and panted happily, his tail wagging at near-lightspeed.

 

“I _could_ just make you disappear . . . take you for a nice, long drive and let you out near a field, or some such. Tell Leli you got itchy feet and ran away to Wales to live on a sheep farm. . . .”

 

The dog didn’t growl, as Alistair had supposed it might. Instead, it made a low chuffing noise, as if amused. As if it _knew_ that Alistair also didn’t have the heart to weather Leli’s inevitable hurt and disappointment at the thought of her beloved new dog having wanted to be anywhere but with her.

 

It knew, bloody _knew_ that it had Alistair over a barrel and it was being _smug_ about it!

 

“Can’t even be a gracious winner, can you, dog?”

 

“Woof! Woof!” More happy tail-wagging and the dog had the temerity to lean forward and lick Alistair’s face, leaving a trail of slobber that ran down Alistair’s neck, to the collar of his red flannel shirt.

 

“Ugh!” He armed dog-drool off his cheek and neck, and the dog chuffed once more. “You’re a menace!”

 

“Woof!” It was nothing less than obvious and tacit agreement, in the tone of the bark and those intelligent bronze-colored eyes. This dog was many things, but a moron wasn’t one of them. It understood exactly what Alistair was saying and what he wanted of it. And it was _having fun_ pretending otherwise.

 

Alistair was, he realized—not for the first time in the past three weeks—stuck with this manipulative, too-smart, dog-psychopath for the rest of its natural life.

 

 _I’m going to_ kill _Morrigan when she gets here. Not only is she a whole day late bringing Leli back from her bimonthly stay at that sterile, cement-and-glass high-rise her mother calls a home, but I’ve had to put up with the damn dog that_ Morrigan _thought it would be best to gift our daughter with,_ without _consulting me!_ Alistair sighed and shook his head, looking at the puppy once more. The animal was licking itself in an unmentionable place—something which Alistair had yet to train it out of doing, to Leli’s giggling amusement—clearly having the time of its life. _And, of course, sending it off to stay with Morrigan’s out of the question since her block doesn’t allow pets . . . although, I only have_ Morrigan’s _word on that. . . ._

 

Although, as the—more or less—amicable ex-husband of one the most up-and-coming stockbrokers in the city, Alistair was forced to admit that _lying_ wasn’t one of Morrigan Wilde’s flaws. Had she not wanted the dog at her fancy penthouse—and she probably hadn’t—she would have simply _said so_ , flat-out, and cowed Alistair into taking the animal. Which she had done, anyway.

 

And now, said animal was having a rather massive bowel movement on Alistair’s just-Swiffered hard-wood floor . . . while staring up at Alistair expectantly.

 

Nearly a minute later, the dog still wasn’t done. The poo just _kept on coming_. Alistair even stood and took a few steps back . . . just in case.

 

“Well,” Alistair said when the animal was finally—hopefully—emptied. He crossed his arms as he gazed down at the dog he could neither throttle nor throw out, thanks to Leli’s big, unconditionally loving heart (Alistair couldn’t imagine from whom she got _that_ trait. It certainly wasn’t the ex-Mrs. Grey-Warden). “Will _you_ be fetching the cleaning supplies? Or shall _I_?”

 

The puppy panted for a few more moments, then stopped, its mouth dropping open as if it would reply. It’s keen eyes were earnest and almost thoughtful, and Alistair half-expected to get an answer.

 

But just then, the doorbell rang—and Leli’s piping, precious voice called: “DADDY! We’re home!”—and, heart lifting, face alight, Alistair turned and hurried to the door. He never did find out just _how_ intelligent the big, dumb mutt was.

 

#

 

“. . . and she’s done all her reading for school, but for Social Studies. And don’t forget she has that essay for Language Arts due on Friday morning. We both know you’re better at that drivel than I,” Morrigan said in her dry, laconic way, waving one perfectly-manicured hand—how a woman who practiced _muay thai_ on a daily basis managed to keep her sensibly short, but perfectly-upkept nails in such flawless shape was a mystery to Alistair—as if having Leli back not only a day late, but late for a _school-night_ , was of no moment.

 

After nearly four years of similar stunts and inconsiderate gestures, Alistair was used to it, and chalked it up to Morrigan and Leli having such a good time, neither wanted it to end before it absolutely had to.

 

After all, little girls needed their mothers. And Alistair knew that Morrigan was determined to be a good example for Leli and a force for good in her life.

 

So, if Morrigan wanted to spend more time with Leli, that was a good thing. And never mind that, without his little princess to keep him company, Alistair got so very _lonely_ . . . between fighting with the damned dog and cleaning up its massive poos, that was.

 

“. . . still wants those roller-skates she saw in the window of Basingstoke’s, last week, and I was thinking I could get those for her for her birthday next month, if you hadn’t planned on getting them. . . .” Morrigan was saying. Alistair nodded absently as he washed his hands at the kitchen sink.

 

“That’s fine,” he replied mildly. In the living room, Leli was laughing and playing with the dog, who was yipping in a high, happy tone, like a real puppy. The scent of slightly watered-down bleach hung in the air, stinging Alistair’s nostrils a bit, even coming from the living room. (How Leli stood it, he didn’t know, but she seemed happy enough to be in the room while with the windows open, letting the bleach-pong out into the spring evening.) But it was better than the smell of fresh dog-poo. “I was planning on getting her that video game based on that cartoon she likes with the little pink-things—what’re they called—?”

 

“Wuzzles.”

 

“Right! And they have to eat the, er. . . .”

 

“Flozberries.”

 

“Yes! Before those green wisp-things—I want to say _Snargs_. . . ?”

 

“Snorgs.”

 

“Right, right—before the Snorgs devour them all!”

 

“Perhaps I’ll get her that and you get her the roller-skates, since you can actually _remember_ what _those_ are called, and you’ll _never_ remember to tell the clerk at the store you want _The Wuzzles: Battle for the Flozberries of Snorg-Island_.”

 

“Good point.” Alistair chuckled, thinking of the roller-skates. Leli’s favorite color was orange, and if he could find a pair in either orange or blue—her _second_ favorite color—he’d be a slice of fried gold.

 

Never mind that Alistair had already bought her about _forty_ presents since the week after her seventh birthday, as he’d happened across things he’d thought would catch her interest, from a child’s e-reader, to the latest Stuffy-Guy that came out just ten days, ago.

 

Not even a _million_ presents would be enough for his little Leli. He was determined to make sure her childhood wasn’t as deprived of both love and material things as his own had been, until Duncan adopted him when he was fourteen. . . .

 

“. . . and we’re going to have to nip _that_ in the bud, before she—are you even listening to me, Alistair?”

 

Shutting off the tap, Alistair turned to his ex-wife, who was leaning against the counter in front of the microwave. She looked sharp and lethal in her stark, elegant charcoal pants-suit. Her sable hair was pulled into a _seemingly_ haphazard upsweep held in place with pins and a prayer.

 

She was, as always, breathtaking and gorgeous.

 

“I _always_ listen to you, Morrigan. May not always agree, but I always _listen_ ,” Alistair said with a smile. Morrigan rolled her pale-golden eyes and quirked her right eyebrow.

 

“Indeed,” she said, low and amused. Even now, that tone still did _things_ to Alistair. Namely, it made him sad for the days when courting Morrigan Wilde’s amusement and fond disdain had been his entire agenda for life and reason for existing.

 

He _missed_ those days . . . not Morrigan, herself—not really—but missed being so in love with another person that even their faults seemed . . . unique and endearing. Beautiful.

 

“Well, I was wondering if I could also change this weekend for the next? Take Leli again this Friday afternoon, until Sunday afternoon? Next weekend I’m going to Taiwan for business,” Morrigan said, smiling a bit wistfully as she watched Leli through the archway that lead back into the living room. Alistair glanced in, too. Leli was being pinned and licked to death by the dog, laughing and cackling and flailing. She had slobber all over her fair face and some in her auburn hair.

 

For a moment, Alistair was taken—also not for the first time—by how greatly Leli resembled his mother: from hair color to complexion, sea-blue eyes to bright, open smile. It made him miss the woman he barely remembered, but whom he still loved with all his heart.

 

“We can do that, easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy,” Alistair said graciously, leaning against the counter not far from Morrigan. “It’s not like I had plans or anything. For next weekend or any of the ones that follow.”

 

“Is that your pathetic attempt at sarcasm, darling?” Morrigan asked with round amusement. Alistair snorted, glancing at her effortlessly regal profile.

 

“No, just my pathetic attempt at being pathetic. Is it working?”

 

“Dreadfully well.”

 

“Ah! Good, then!”

 

They glanced at each other and started laughing. By the time the laughter tapered off, they’d shifted closer along the counter, until they were leaning against each other, like old times.

 

“So, is there some reason my not un-handsome, occasionally charming, reasonably intelligent ex-husband does nothing on his free weekends but stay home and clean, presumably?” Morrigan asked, linking their arms and leaning her head against Alistair’s. He snorted and blushed.

 

“And speaking of awkward prying, how’re things with Flemeth, these days? Still as warm and fuzzy as ever?”

 

“ _Touché_ ,” Morrigan said, letting the subject of her relationship with her mother—and Alistair’s lack of romantic attachment—drop.

 

For all of two minutes.

 

“It’s just that, you’re not a bad-looking fellow and when you want to be, you’re a decent conversationalist. You’re sweet and kind and funny. You could get damned near anyone you set your sights on. Well . . . _almost_ anyone.” Morrigan sighed. “You’re _not_ still hung-up on _me_ , are you?”

 

“Oh, but don’t be silly,” Alistair scoffed, wrapping an arm around his ex-wife’s shoulders and squeezing loosely. “I’ll always love you, dearheart, but I’m about as hung-up on you as you are on me!”

 

“Hmm.” Morrigan sighed once more, soft and noncommittal. Then she straightened. “Well, I suppose if _I’m_ not your problem, we’ll have to figure out what _is_.”

 

“And now, I have a problem?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“Yes, I can see where I might . . . does my problem have eight letters and start with an ‘M’. . . ?”

 

Morrigan got him a good one in the side with her bony elbow, causing him to _oof!_ “ _Your_ problem is, you’ve walled your heart off to keep anyone else from getting in.”

 

Alistair snorted, still rubbing his abused ribs. “Oh, really? And why would I do something like that?” he asked with a nervous sort of nonchalance, but he didn’t dare look at Morrigan, for fear of what he’d see in her eyes.

 

But she was so long in answering that curiosity got the better of Alistair, and he overcame his fear. He found himself the subject not of pity or disdain, but of a startling empathy. Startling because it was coming from _Morrigan_ . . . the queen of meeting _no one_ half-way.

 

“Every time you lose someone, your heart closes a bit more and a bit more, Alistair. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Haven’t _known_. Haven’t _felt_ you shutting out everyone but Leli.”

 

“Is that an accusation?”

 

“It’s an _observation_ , merely.” She smiled a little, though it was more of a grimace. “You lost your mother when you were four. Maric died before you even knew he was your father. Earl Redcliffe’s bitch of a wife made him put you back into foster care—when their honeymoon was barely over—where you languished for almost five years until you ran away from Templar’s Home for Boys, and straight into the literal arms of the head of the Grey-Warden Home for Children, who not only took you in, but _adopted_ you. Flash forward ten years, your life is on track, you’re married, on good terms with your Maric’s other son, Cailan, and his wife Anora. You’ve a reliable father-figure in Duncan Grey-Warden—you’ve even reconciled with that weak-minded prat Redcliffe despite his wife’s meddling—and you’re about to become a father, yourself. You finally feel, maybe for the first time since your mother died all those years ago, that everything’s going right in your life. And then. . . .”

 

Alistair frowned. He didn’t need more of a run-down from his ex-wife to know what came next. “Yes. _And then_.”

 

“Their deaths weren’t your fault, you know,” Morrigan said kindly, and Alistair snorted, blinking away tears that stung and burned.

 

“ _I_ _know_ their deaths weren’t my fault,” he said defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. “I didn’t cause Duncan, an otherwise healthy and hale man for any age, to have an embolism and drop dead in Tesco’s. I didn’t cause Cailan’s relapse . . . didn’t cause him to be drunk while driving his pregnant wife home from visiting her father. Didn’t cause him to run them off the road to their death. Didn’t cause Earl’s fatal heart attack. Didn’t cause _you_ to leave me, either . . . or so I’ve been told.”

 

Morrigan was frowning down at her no doubt expensive shoes. “And that wasn’t a lie. None of it was.”

 

“So, whose fault _was_ it?” Alistair asked, laughing wryly, ruefully. “Any of it? If the fault wasn’t mine, whose was it? Yours? God’s? The whims of an uncaring, utterly indifferent universe?”

 

“Why does it have to be _anyone’s_ fault?” Morrigan asked simply, shrugging. “Even Earl’s wife couldn’t blame _you_ for his death, only his own overindulgence in rich food and lack of physical activity. Duncan’s embolism was as random and tragic as getting hit by an asteroid. And Cailan and Anora . . . your brother, unfortunately, inherited you father’s propensity for drinking. And putting up with Loghain MacTir was enough of a stressor that it’s not incomprehensible that he would’ve fallen off the wagon, that night, in particular. And _I_ don’t blame _you_ and I would hope you don’t blame _me_ for the way you and I . . . grew apart.”

 

“You know I don’t,” Alistair confirmed, quiet and somber. Morrigan’s smile was sad.

 

“I’m glad,” she said. “I don’t think I could bear it if you did.”

 

Surprised, Alistair could only gape for a few moments. Before he could even formulate a question, however, Morrigan was sniffing, and turning to watch Leli and the dog rolling around, having the time of their young lives. “Anyway,” she said briskly, “I’m no analyst—at least not of the human mind or heart—but it doesn’t take a doctorate to see that you’re afraid of loss. And thus, afraid of commitment. You fear losing people you haven’t even _got_ , yet, and so, you take care to _not_ get them, at all.”

 

“Have I told you lately how much I love your attempts at evaluating my mental and emotional states?”

 

“You snark, but don’t, I notice, deny anything I’ve said.”

 

Scowling, Alistair turned away from Leli and the dog, and from Morrigan. He braced his hands on the edge of the counter, staring down the garbage disposal. “Look, the last thing I need, right now, is my ex-wife psychoanalyzing me minutes after cleaning up the biggest pile of dog-shit I’ve ever seen,” he gritted out waspishly. “ _Do_ pick another subject to twit me about or go home.”

 

“Oh, fine.” Morrigan’s easy capitulation was suspicious, especially in light of the fact she knew he wouldn’t actually toss her out unless she crossed a line that even _Morrigan_ never had. “Speaking of the dog again, when are you or Leli going to name the beast?”

 

Alistair snorted again. “I left it up to Leli, since he’s hers. And anyway, every time I suggest a name, I hear: _But, Daddy! That’s a_ terrible _name for a doggy!_ ”

 

Chuckling at Alistair’s oddly spot-on impersonation of their daughter, Morrigan shifted a bit to look at him again. He could feel her gaze like a laser, focused and intent. He knew the subject previously under discussion hadn’t been forgotten—that Morrigan was still letting her analysis of his character percolate in that mad, brilliant brain of hers, no matter what questions she asked about the damned dog she’d foisted on Alistair.

 

“Well, _I’d_ offer suggestions, but I come from a family who thought it a grand idea to name several of its daughters _Flemeth_. I’m lucky to have escaped with _Morrigan_ , and nothing worse.” This time, Morrigan was the one to snort. “At any rate, I may not be able to help you with naming the beast, but perhaps with . . . _taming_ the beast?”

 

Alistair glanced at Morrigan in question. “How’s that, now?”

 

Smirking and stepping away from the sink, to the granite center island where she’d left her purse, Morrigan opened it, dug around for a bit, muttering under her breath as she shoved aside items which included several of Leli’s smaller toys—mostly army men and super-balls—then came up with a somehow pristine white business card.

 

After rezipping her purse, she turned back to Alistair, who was facing the rest of the kitchen, once more, and held out the card.

 

“What’s that?” he asked doubtfully, not reaching out to take it. Morrigan rolled her eyes in disdain.

 

“A bowling ball. I thought you might take up a hobby in your copious spare time.”

 

Giving his ex-wife an irritated look, Alistair snatched the card before Morrigan could retract it. “You’re such a bitch.”

 

“Well, flattery won’t get you very far, anymore, but I appreciate the sentiment.

 

“Mm.” Alistair examined the card. It boasted the name **PROPER PUP** in large, cartoonish letters, and below that: _Dog-walking and Obedience Training_ , and a clip-art picture of a floppy-eared, smiling mutt with its tongue hanging out and tail pointed up. Below _that_ was an email address:  ProperPup@QMail.net.

 

On the back of the card was a hand-scrawled phone number and the word _Daelyn_ in a looping, swirling cursive as unlike Morrigan’s spiky, crabbed print as it was possible to get.

 

Looking up at Morrigan, who was smirking once more, Alistair’s brow furrowed. “Where did you get this?”

 

“What does it matter _where_ I got it—I _got_ it, and that’s that. The answer to your prayers!”

 

Examining the card again—the stock was good, but nothing fancy or overwrought—Alistair shook his head. “Well, if you just found this on a bulletin board, I can’t say that I’m inclined to look into it. . . .”

 

“Oh, pish, Alistair, don’t be a snob.”

 

Alistair laughed, a short, startled bark of sound. “And if _that’s_ not the pot calling the kettle black!”

 

“Hmph.” Morrigan leaned against the center island. “Well, if you _must_ know . . . my assistant, Lily, recommended Daelyn. He’s an old school-chum of her husband Jowan’s.” Shrugging dismissively, she crossed her arms. “Lily says that Daelyn’s both competent and trustworthy. And, apparently, he’s the reason she and Jowan were able to stay together—he persuaded her Uncle Greg and Jowan’s Uncle Irving not to send them off to different private schools after they got caught screwing in the middle of their senior year in high school.”

 

“Oh, brilliant! Just what this beast needs: A matchmaker!” Alistair was the one to roll his eyes sarcastically, now, and Morrigan laughed.

 

“Well, she’s handed Daelyn’s cards out all over the office to anyone who even _hints_ at having or wanting a dog. Even the senior partners. The deputy CFO has nothing but good things to say about Daelyn’s training methods and results. And Niall _never_ has anything laudatory to say about _anything_.”

 

“Huh.” Alistair had met the deputy CFO in question several times over the years, at office parties and shindigs. The dour, downcast man had been vaguely depressing and complained about _everything_. So, a good word from _him_ was certainly worth keeping in mind. “What’re his rates? How long’s he been in business? Does he handle large dogs well? Is he taking on new clients? And what kind of name is _Daelyn_?”

 

“Welsh? I don’t know—does it matter?” Morrigan gave Alistair a disapproving look that’d always made him quail, even if only on the inside. She looked exactly like Flemeth when she pulled that face, and if Alistair had ever found another human being off-putting and a bit spooky, it was Flemeth Korcari. “You have a dog that’s out of control and this man, for all intents and purposes, is the answer to your prayers. A dog-whisperer, as it were. You’re willing to overlook all that because of his weird, possibly-Welsh name?”

 

His outward affect laconic and amused—as it almost always was, no matter how inwardly chagrined he was in the face of Morrigan’s rather dry disapproval—Alistair huffed. “Did I say that? _When_ exactly did I say that? I was just curious, is all.”

 

“Yes, well . . . curiosity killed the cat.”

 

“Good thing for me, then, that _I’m_ not a cat.” Alistair grinned winningly in the face of Morrigan’s distinct lack of amusement. Finally, she heaved a sigh and grabbed her purse again, rooting around until she located her car keys.

 

“As to the rest of your questions, the ones that are actually relevant to the situation, e.g. Daelyn’s rates and availability, and such,” Morrigan said in such a casually uncaring voice—as she glanced into the living room again, where Leli was being pinned by the dog, who panted cheerfully in her lap while she ineffectively ordered him to get off her—Alistair knew she was, for some reason, invested in the idea of him contacting this dog-training Welshman. “Email him and find out straight from the horse’s mouth.”

 

“What is it with you comparing men to animals? Or do I even want to know?” Alistair asked, and Morrigan’s eyebrow quirked again.

 

“If the hoof fits,” she replied, the ghost of a smile curving her spare mouth ever so slightly. “Email him, Alistair, before you . . . before that _dog_ gets any larger and harder to train.”

 

#

 

> **To:** ProperPup@QMail.net
> 
> **From:** Alistair.Grey-Warden@webvista.com
> 
> **Subject:** My dog is a nightmare . . . please help?
> 
>  
> 
> What it says on the tin, basically. My dog—I should say my daughter’s dog—is a huge, disobedient calamity. He poos wherever he likes, tears up the house, and has eaten three pairs of my shoes and several of my daughter’s favorite toys. The laptop I’m typing up this email on has teeth-marks in the outer case from where the dog bit down on it last week trying to wrestle it away from me!
> 
>  
> 
> You come highly recommended as a dog-whisperer by my daughter’s mother, Morrigan Wilde, whose assistant, Lily Chantry, passed along your business card.
> 
>  
> 
> I don’t know what happens next, only that I need help with this dog. Please let me know if you’re accepting new clients first, and if so, what your rates are. Also, let me know if you work with LARGE dogs, because this dog is the size of an underfed Clydesdale.
> 
>  
> 
> And he’s only eight months old.
> 
>  
> 
> —Alistair Grey-Warden

 

#

 

After dashing off the email, Alistair rubbed his tired eyes with fingers that still smelt faintly of bleach—but, thankfully, not of dog-poo—and leaned back in his comfortable leather chair.

 

Leli was long-since fed and a-bed, with a loudly snoring dog parked protectively at the foot of her bed. Alistair had since made Leli’s lunch for the next day, cleaned up the kitchen and recleaned the living room, watched a bit of telly, and finally retired to his office to faff about on the internet for a bit . . . before recalling the business card Morrigan had given him.

 

The email had been the work of a few minutes and now that it was done, Alistair looked around him sleepily. The small, wood paneled-room he’d dedicated as an office boasted a few wooden shelves with more photos and toys on them than books—other than books on history and politics, and autobiographies, Alistair wasn’t much of a reader . . . neither was Morrigan, so where Leli got her obsessive love of fiction and fairy tales, prose and poetry from was a mystery—and a few small potted violets given to him by Leli. (Like her grandmothers, she had a green thumb.)

 

The center of the room was dominated by a large desk that’d once belonged to Maric Theirin, and had been gifted to him by Cailan.

 

 _“Dad would’ve wanted you to have a piece of him,”_ Cailan had said, clasping Alistair’s shoulder then pulling his younger brother into a hug that was, as always, warm. Because it was _Cailan_. _“He’d be proud of the man you’ve become, Alee. Just as I am. . . .”_

 

Taking a moment to revel in the memory of being wrapped around in safety and love and approval, Alistair sighed and closed his eyes, remembering his older brother’s martial, but merry spirit and—when he was sober, anyway—kind heart. The sort of heart that would’ve sooner cut off his right arm than put his wife and child in any kind of avoidable danger. Or would’ve been, had Loghain MacTir not had the awful super-power of driving good people to drink.

 

How Anora had grown up so sweet and gentle, with such a pit-viper for a father, was beyond Alistair. Like him, he supposed, she took almost entirely after her mother, both in fair looks and easy personality. . . .

 

All of a sudden, a soft ping woke Alistair out of a doze bordering on deeper sleep. He opened bleary eyes and automatically snatched his phone up off his desk—his laptop had long since gone into rest-mode—and checked the time. It was 12:07 a.m. He’d been dozing for at least an hour.

 

Muttering and scratching at his five o’clock shadow—as incongruously red as Leli’s hair—he unlocked his phone and opened his email app to find there was one new message waiting for him in Priority Mail:

 

> **To:** Alistair.Grey-Warden@webvista.com
> 
> **From:** ProperPup@QMail.net
> 
> **Subject:** Re: My dog is a nightmare . . . please help?

 

 

> Good evening, Mr. Grey-Warden!
> 
>  
> 
> Sounds like you’ve got your hands full, indeed. But it may please you to know that the behavior you describe is neither uncommon nor unfixable. I believe that I may be able to help you and your daughter to correct these unfortunate behaviors with a relative few visits (no, I’m not currently looking for new clients, won’t be for the next several months, but for a friend of Lily’s and Morrigan’s. . . .) and as little intrusion into your lives as possible.

 

> As to what happens next, the first thing I like to do with new clients is, if you’ll pardon both the unsubtle segue and bluntness, meet with the client and dog (what is your dog’s name, by the way?) in a comfortable setting, such as a dog-park, and get to know you both. That will help me determine if the three of us—or four of us, since your daughter is a part of this equation—can work together.
> 
>  
> 
> If you’re amenable for that meeting, I have as early a date and time as this afternoon, around 3:30 p.m.—perhaps at Dwyer Dog-Park? And I’m free for the rest of the afternoon, should you choose to get started then. If all goes well, we can work out a schedule and rate.
> 
>  
> 
> And if today doesn’t work for you, let me know when might.
> 
>  
> 
> I look forward to hearing from you.
> 
>  
> 
> Regards,
> 
>  
> 
> —Daelyn Surana

 

 

 

Smiling—though it turned into a loud, jaw-cracker of a yawn—Alistair dashed off a quick reply on his phone, read it over twice, then sent it off:

 

> That all sounds perfect! My daughter and I, and the beast—whom we’ve had for 21 days and still haven’t named—will be near the eastern entrance by 3:30. We’ll be by the Marge Dwyer statue. Let me know if that suits or if you need to change plans for whatever reason. I’ll keep an eye out for a reply during the day.

 

> Sleep well,
> 
>  
> 
> Alistair

 

 

Satisfied, Alistair stood up, stretching and yawning, pocketed his phone, and shuffled off toward the stairs.

 

As he passed Leli’s room, he peered in to see the beast was now asleep on the bed, on his side, facing the door. Leli had kicked the covers off and flung one skinny little arm and one skinny little leg over the dog.

 

Alistair chuckled, and for a moment, two gold-bronze louvers suddenly shined at him from within the dog’s homely, brutish face.

 

Then, with a huff, the dog closed his eyes again, obviously satisfied that there was no threat to Leli or itself.

 

Alistair pulled the door in, but not all the way closed. He left the hall light on—in case Leli had a nightmare and needed the comfort of light and to be able to see her way to Alistair’s room—and let himself into his bedroom. He also left his own door cracked a bit.

 

A quick shower later, dressed again in a pair of blue boxers and a grey t-shirt, Alistair was sliding into bed, feeling optimistic and somewhat . . . _excited_ for the morning, and the afternoon. Because, as usual, Morrigan had been right:

 

Daelyn Surana, Welshman or not, was likely to be the answer to Alistair’s prayers.

 

TBC


	2. In Which Both Problems Have the Same Solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair Grey-Warden’s ex-wife, Morrigan, bought their daughter a _huge_ , badly-behaved, nigh-unmanageable puppy. Leliana loves the beast dearly, but Alistair can’t stand it. Leave it to Morrigan to also present a solution to the problem she caused, in the form of a business card for an obedience school, run by a highly-recommended dog-whisperer named Daelyn Surana.
> 
> Unbeknownst to both Alistair and Daelyn, the beastly dog isn’t the only one who’s going to learn to sit, stay, walk, heel, and _come_ on command.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Modern AU. A cracktastic one, if I do say so, myself (and I do).

“. . . and then, Mrs. Yeoh gave me a gold star for good stewardship!” Leliana enthused, skipping next to her unabashedly proud father as they looked both ways. They paused to wait for traffic and to say the crossing-the-street-rhyme Alistair’s mother had once taught him when he was younger than Leli: _“Stop, look, and listen,/ Before you cross the street!/ Use your eyes, use your ears,/ And then, you use your feet!”_ This, despite the beast’s impatient tugging. Then, they crossed the last street on their three-blocks-walk from muni-parking, to the dog-park.

 

“Well! A gold star!” Alistair asked, feigning surprise. Leli nodded brightly and he widened his eyes. “Wow! You’ll have to show me when we get home!”

 

“Okay! And—and she also made me classroom-helper for the next two weeks! She took my picture and put it up next to the coatroom with a big star around _it_ , too!”

 

“That’s absolutely _brilliant_ , lovey!” Alistair exclaimed, leaning down to kiss the top of Leli’s auburn head. She smelled of strawberry shampoo and Marmite—her current obsessions. “I know no one in your year takes better care of the class rabbits than you! I’m so _proud_ of you!”

 

Leli bounced, and grinned her charming, gap-toothed grin up at her father. He returned that grin—the same, but for no gaps—and glanced both ways again as they stepped onto the sidewalk and approached the eastern entrance of Marge Dwyer Dog-Park.

 

Beyond the black, wrought-iron fencing, the park was just beginning to bloom, at last, thanks to spring’s late start, this year. There wasn’t much green to be seen, or much grass on the ground or poking up near the edges of the many gravel paths. But there was an air of expectancy surrounding the place. Between that and all the people and dogs frisking about joyously, some playing with Frisbees or sticks or chewed-over tennis balls, it was obvious that everyone was relieved that spring was, finally, upon them.

 

Though, the lingering chill still in the air and habitually grey skies told a somewhat different story.

 

He swung Leli’s hand then twirled her like a ballerina as they stepped into the popular park. In his other hand was _the beast’s_ leash, and said beast was already champing at the bit. Rather, tugging at the lead, and hard enough that even Alistair—who was in _very_ good shape, thanks to his exercise regimen, passed down from Duncan—was having a time of exerting even basic control over the dastardly mutt.

 

Just getting the dog to the park after picking Leli up from school had been a job of work. Finding parking in the muni-lot had taken more time than usual, and on top of that, the beast had resisted Alistair every step of the way, until they were within sniffing distance of the park and other dogs. Then its resistance had changed to anticipatory tugging.

 

Suffice it to say, 3:30 had come and gone, and it was now pressing on to 4p.m. Alistair didn’t expect Daelyn Surana to actually still be waiting at the statue. And sure enough, as he let the beast drag him and Leli into the eastern entrance of the park, there was no one to be seen at the statue except for an elderly lady with decrepit-looking poodle. The poodle was relieving itself on the dedication plaque.

 

Sighing inwardly, Alistair looked up at the overcast sky—rain was a promise the day had yet to keep, but Alistair knew better than to hope for the lie of actual _sunshine_ , even in spring—and tried to paste a bright smile on his face before looking down at Leli, who was watching him with questions in her big blue-green eyes. And the beast was still tugging on the leash, trying to run to the statue—probably to follow the damned poodle’s sterling example.

 

“Where’s the man we were supposed to meet, Daddy?” Leli asked, looking around with curiosity, scrutinizing every blade of grass and every leaf as if they could be hiding one Daelyn Surana. As they got to the statue, the old lady and her poodle hobbled away, leaving just Alistair and Leli to stare up at a manic-faced Marge Dwyer. “Did he leave?”

 

“Probably, sweetness. We _are_ a bit late.” Alistair tried to make it sound like not a big deal. He even shrugged. Leli frowned, hitching her orange bookbag up on her thin shoulders. “I guess we can hang out here for a bit for the dog’s sake, let him run off some of his, er, energy, before we go home and get that Language Arts essay done.”

 

Leli made a face. She hated essays. Poems and stories were much more to her taste. “I suppose . . . oh! Maybe Mr. Surana is late, _too!_ ” She bounced hopefully, craning her neck to look back at the eastern entrance. Alistair looked, too—despite the beast trying its best to go ‘round the left side of the statue, his large nostrils flaring with interest—and the only people entering were three goth-looking teenage boys, one of them holding the leash of a small, excitable Jack Russell terrier, with ostentatious disdain and impatience.

 

“Well, that’s a possibility, princess, but what’re the odds that we _and_ Mr. Surana are both running half an hour la—”

 

“Excuse me . . . Alistair Grey-Warden?”

 

Startled at hearing his name in a low, melodic voice—polite and demurring, but neither hesitant nor shy—Alistair looked back around and his eyes widened.

 

Stepping around the left side of the statue to stand before him, dressed in blue-and-purple-striped, button-down shirt, khakis, and canvas tennies dyed some horrible, fluorescent green, and wearing a canvas satchel slung over his right shoulder, was a smallish young man of slim build and cream-pale skin. Wide, round grey-green eyes gazed up at Alistair in patient question, set under pale, straight brows and fringed by long, pale lashes. His face was winsome and fine-featured—not in the square, strong fashion Morrigan’s was, but in a narrow, delicate, almost foxlike way. His mouth was generous and mobile-looking, with full, curving lips that were nearly heart-shaped and slightly bitten.

 

Framing this remarkable face was thick, wavy platinum hair, escaping a man-bun in shoulder-length wisps and trailers that stirred in the insistent breeze. The young man absently reached up to brush a trailer out of his face, and smiled up at Alistair. He looked like some unimaginably talented artist’s rendition of an elven prince, or something. His ears were even just-slightly-pointed at the top.

 

“Whah?” Alistair huffed out as if he’d been sucker-punched in the gut by the young man’s loveliness. That small smile faltered a bit.

 

“I’m sorry—have I got the wrong person, then?” he asked in that _voice_ —and a _Scottish_ accent that was quite thick—and Alistair shivered. Nearly groaned. Those grey-green eyes ticked to Leli and that perfect mouth curved in that small smile that made it more so. Then his gaze drifted to the beast—who was, for once, sitting still and displaying good manners—widened prettily, and that small smile became a puckish grin. “Though I certainly hope not, gorgeous animal like this. How’re _you_ , my good man?”

 

The beast barked once, happily, and began straining at the leash, as if to jump up on the young man, whom he probably already outweighed. His tail was wagging at about a thousand kilometers per second. The wind of said wagging, alone, was enough to have knocked a frail toddler over.

 

“He answered you!” Leli cried, amazed and delighted. “He understood you and he answered _back_!”

 

“Of course, he did, my little lady! He’s a very smart pup!” the young man said, kneeling in front of the beast and digging in his satchel. He came out with a large dog-treat in the shape of a bone. The beast instantly went for it, nearly dragging Alistair with him, but Alistair stood firm and the young man held the treat out of reach—just barely. Thwarted, the beast woofed then whined . . . the same whine that’d had Leli sneaking him both dog-treats and food from her plate from the very first.

 

At that pitiful, petulant sound, the young man made an equally pitiful, petulant, somehow teasing sound and face, then laughed, _booping_ the beast on his nose. Clearly surprised, the dog snorted and shook his head, then blinked at the young man in confusion.

 

Leaning in close, trusting and unafraid, the young man smiled without showing his teeth and whispered: “I know you understand me. And I understand you, right back, yes? So, let’s not play with each other unduly, my good man. This dog-treat,” he said, waggling the bone, which garnered another sad whine from the beast, “isn’t for anyone here, but _you_. And I’m sure you know what’s expected of you in return for this lovely treat, isn’t that right?”

 

Another whine, high and pleading, along with the biggest eyes Alistair had ever seen the beast make, were the only reply the young man received . . . until he leaned in close, his brow slightly furrowed, his eyes gentle, but steady.

 

“ _Stay_ ,” he said firmly.

 

Alistair’s mouth dropped open in a gape as the beast stopped straining at and tugging on the leash, and lowered his head with another whine and an irritable huff.

 

Now, when the young man smiled, he showed off pearly-white teeth that were as perfect as the rest of him, and tapped the ground with the index finger of his free hand. “Now,” he said warmly. “We’re almost there, my fine fellow. Do you think you want this treat badly enough to sit, as well?”

 

The beast made a sound that was eerily like a human muttering inaudibly, then looked up at the young man . . . at the _treat_ . . . then back at the young man. Another hopeful whine escaped the almost pouting maw of the dog and the young man, his attention still wholly on the beast, made a dismissive clucking sound.

 

“Oh, _really_ , now, it’s not that much to ask, that you sit while you eat, like a civilized pup! And, frankly, I’m in no hurry to leave the park on this fine day. I could stay like this for _hours_ , me,” this dog-charmer, said expansively, which drew another whine from the beast as if it . . . as if it genuinely _understood_ what was being said. Alistair was beyond speechless, as was Leli, who was stood stock-still next to him.

 

“Roop?” The dog made an interrogative sound, as if it was actually questioning the pretty young man, who chuckled.

 

“I’m a man of m’word, fear not. But we need to get your behavior under control so that you can stay with this nice family . . . you _do_ want to stay with them, correct?”

 

Now, the beast laid on the ground, muzzle between his forelegs, eyes huge and sad as he gazed up at Leli, then back at the young man, almost . . . pleadingly.

 

“I thought so. And since laying down’s close enough for all intents and purposes, here y’go, lad.” And with that, the young man placed the treat on the beast’s nose. After a few seconds of crossing his eyes to try and see the bone-biscuit, the dog huffed and threw its head back, launching the treat in the air. Upon its descent, the treat was snapped up in an impressive catch by the mollified beast.

 

“WOW!” Leli exclaimed, clapping and bouncing as the beast crunched down happily on the treat. He didn’t even complain when Leli knelt next to him and hugged him as he ate.

 

Smiling warmly, the young man watched dog and girl, both seeming quite pleased with the outcome of this mini-lesson, then looked up at Alistair.

 

“So,” the young man— _Daelyn Surana_ . . . it could be no one else—said chirpily, getting to his feet with feline grace. He held out his slim, elegant hand and Alistair, still gobsmacked, took it as he gazed down into those amazing eyes. “Right family, after all, I take it?”

 

“Yeah,” Alistair replied breathlessly, as Daelyn’s strong, firm grip eased a bit, but he didn’t let go. Not that Alistair was in any hurry to have that happen. “I mean, yes. Er.” He reached up to scratch the back of his head with his free hand and no small amount of chagrin—he’d dropped the beast’s leash at some point during Daelyn’s little lesson. “I’m Alistair. That’s Leli, hugging the beast you’ve tamed. And you . . . you’re. . . .”

 

“Daelyn,” Daelyn said, smiling his mischievous smile. “Surana.”

 

“No—well, _yes_ , I imagine you _are_. But you’re also. Erm. Hired.”

 

Those platinum brows lifted fractionally. “But . . . you don’t know my availability. Or my rates,” he reminded Alistair bemusedly. Alistair glanced at the beast—the dog—still chewing the last of his treat, submitting to Leli’s cooing attention and petting. Then he looked at Daelyn’s deceptively fine-boned hand, still held in his own rough, square one . . . then back up into Daelyn’s clear, wide eyes.

 

“I don’t think I care,” he said plainly. And Daelyn his wide eyes widening further, blushed and smiled.

 

#

 

“ _Soooooo_ ,” Alistair drew out as he and Daelyn strolled along one the dog-park’s many paths. Ahead of them, playing some strange combination of hide-and-seek and tag with the dog, Leli laughed and ran here and there, dodging between indulgently smiling dog-walkers—personal and professional. Those same people and their dogs did double-takes when they saw the size of the dog with which such a small girl was playing.

 

“So,” Daelyn agreed mildly. When Alistair glanced at the younger man, it was to see a small smile playing about that perfect mouth. It made _Alistair’s_ mouth go suspiciously dry, and he licked his lips in an attempt at wetting them. He was only marginally successful.

 

And then Daelyn glanced up at him with those pretty, clear, sparkling eyes and Alistair flushed under their patient expectation. “Er . . . ah . . . yes! So, dog-walking, eh?” he stammered out, laughing a bit, both with nerves and utter mortification at the fact that he’d just seemed to laugh at this near-stranger’s choice of occupation. “I mean, erm, that is—dog-walking! Amazing!”

 

Daelyn chuckled, low and rich, and Alistair couldn’t help the shiver that worked its way through him again, top to bottom, inside to out, balls to bones. And back, again.

 

“Yes, dog-walking. Not exactly the high-powered career I expected to end up in, or the sort of calling my Aunt Wynne hoped I’d have, but it pays the bills and I sleep well at night,” Daelyn said, easy and unoffended. Alistair flushed a little. Then a lot.

 

“I—I didn’t mean to imply—”

 

“Don’t worry, Alistair, I understood what you meant,” Daelyn reassured him, glancing up again and flooring Alistair with his amazing eyes. “Dog-walking’s not exactly a common career path—doesn’t really come up in conversations about job-goals and such. And yet, for all that, there really isn’t that much to talk about, regarding it. It’s pretty simple and straightforward. Not at all mysterious.”

 

“Oh . . . I dunno about _that_ , Daelyn,” Alistair said with some doubt. “I mean, what I saw you do ten minutes ago was . . . pretty damned impressive. That beast listens to _no one_ —not even Leli, really, and he _loves_ her. But _you_ come along and, with a treat and a firm tone, teach him how to sit and stay!”

 

“Ohhh, that,” Daelyn dismissed, waving one elegant hand before brushing the same trailer of wavy platinum hair out of his face. _Lucky hair_ , Alistair thought wistfully. “That bit was easy, yeah? Just a bit of dominance-assertion, some carrot-and-stick, and a no-nonsense tone. Really, anyone can do it, as long as they do it sincerely and reinforce it frequently for at least two weeks. Five or six times a day.”

 

“Wow. That’s a lot of dog-treats,” Alistair noted, whistling, and Daelyn laughed, his smooth tenor jumping up an octave or so. He even covered his mouth like a naughty schoolboy. Alistair found himself grinning at the sight and the thought, thinking that he’d very much like to take the stunning dog-trainer over his knee, and do his best to warm and redden the surely icy-pale skin of his modestly curved, but definitely-a-firm-handful arse. . . .

 

“Well,” Daelyn said, still chuckling, his merry gaze on Leli and the dog, about a dozen yards down the path, near a water fountain. She was attempting to get the beast to sit with the power of a treat Daelyn had given her from his pocket, and the firm tone he’d instructed her to use.

 

The dog’s bottom hit the ground and he woofed happily, but clearly in a way that meant: “Done! Now, treat-time!”

 

“Good boy, Dog!” Leli cooed, loud and piping, placing the treat carefully on the dog’s nose. He instantly launched it into the air, then jumped up to catch it before it could even descend. Leli clapped and squealed, glancing back at her father and Daelyn. “Daddy! Mr. Surana! Did you _see_? Dog just did the trick again _and_ he jumped up to catch the biscuit!”

 

Alistair and Daelyn exchanged fond and amused glances, respectively, as Leli hugged the dog— _Dog_ , apparently—tight, weathering the dog’s biscuit-y, slobbery kisses.

 

“I take it that’s his name, now, little lady?” Daelyn called as they approached the happy pair. Leli nodded eagerly, making a face and blurting out: “YUCK!” as Dog slurped up the right side of her face. Then she was giggling again.

 

“Yep! Because he’s the only dog for me! The best dog in the world!”

 

“Woof! Woof!” Dog agreed, panting up at Daelyn and Alistair as they stopped within petting distance. Daelyn immediately did so, allowing Dog to sniff his hand, first, lick it, then submit to scratches and pets with a happy, doggy grin.

 

Smirking just a bit, Daelyn glanced at Alistair to say something, then clearly changed tack just before he was about to speak. “Y’know . . . pettings are treats, too. And it wouldn’t hurt the Alpha-male of the household to give them when they’re earned.”

 

Alistair snorted. “You’re assuming, that of the dog and I, _I_ am the Alpha-male!”

 

Daelyn’s eyes twinkled with amusement and consideration. “Even a beta-male can have Alpha moments, if he puts his mind to it. And that’s all it is, really. You’re an Alpha if you feel and believe you’re an Alpha, and behave in a manner that supports that belief. _Without_ being a bully or a blowhard,” he added. Alistair grimaced.

 

“Ah . . . I dunno that I have it in me to be an Alpha even to one badly-behaved puppy,” he said quietly, so Leli and Dog wouldn’t hear. Though Dog’s hearing was good enough to catch a tin of dog-food opening from the other side of the Theirin ancestral home—which was, all told, rather large—and the sound of Alistair opening the front door to greet the postman and get the paper.

 

Daelyn’s lucent eyes were measuring, piercing, and very intent. “Oh . . . I think you’ve got an Alpha in you, not so deep down, Alistair. Trust me: I have an . . . instinct for these things. You just have to learn to bring him out more often.”

 

Wryly bemused, but still incredulous, Alistair smiled a bit. “Oh? And how, exactly, would I go about doing _that_?”

 

The younger man laughed again, giving Alistair a once-over that he didn’t miss. Nor was he meant to miss it, he sensed.

 

“Well, for starters, the best way to learn to be an Alpha is to find someone who exemplifies your idea of one, and learn by example. By asking. By—and this will sound counter-intuitive—obedience.”

 

Alistair blinked and his brow furrowed. “Learn to order people around by obeying them? That _does_ sound a bit counter-intuitive, yes.”

 

“Ah, but being an Alpha _isn’t_ about ordering people around—being fussy and making demands of others—it’s about _commanding respect through responsible action_ , not demanding it through whingeing and whims. It’s about . . . being possessive, yes, but from a place of caring and protectiveness. And that’s often something that’s not instilled in many people with Alpha tendencies or who aspire to the role.” Daelyn paused thoughtfully, still absently scratching Dog’s head. “Being an Alpha isn’t about ruling or controlling others through fear or intimidation or even might. It isn’t about controlling others, at all, really. It’s more about _self-control_ , as one must overcome one’s own needs and base instincts to take care of those under one’s aegis. To be an Alpha is the ultimate form of personal service and responsibility. It’s being bodyguard, nursemaid, confessor, role model, authority figure—sometimes _lover_ —and friend. It’s about . . . guidance . . . among other things.”

 

Daelyn wasn’t meeting Alistair’s eyes anymore, but staring off into the distance, his cream-pale face faintly flushed a rosy pink at the cheeks. Dog had wandered off, following a skipping Leli down the path, to a small bald-patch—complete with benches and a drinking fountain—ahead.

 

“And, er . . . what are those, em, other things?” Alistair asked, his voice a bit hoarse and rough. Daelyn colored a bit more.

 

“It can be about love. About release. About shaping a person—or a pet’s—behaviors and mind-set,” he said slowly, biting his lush lower lip. “There’re myriad returns upon submitting to a . . . caring authority.”

 

“Hmm. And . . . what does the _Alpha_ get out of it?” Alistair’s voice suddenly, unaccountably, went from rough to smooth—and almost as low as Daelyn’s. The other man smiled rather limply and looked up at Alistair.

 

“Well, if he’s _me_ , he gets paid handsomely to help very nice but sometimes misguided clients bring their dogs in line,” he murmured, clearing his throat. His flush was finally starting to fade.

 

“Is that . . . is that all _you_ get out of it, then?” Alistair heard himself ask in that smooth— _flirting! Dear gods, I’m flirting with a dog-walker I’ve only just met!_ —playful-but-not voice. Then, as Daelyn’s eyes widened and locked on his own, Alistair felt his face heat-up with a near-painful blush.

 

“That’s . . . all I get out of it in my professional life, yes,” Daelyn said carefully, holding Alistair’s gaze. “But my personal life . . . is perhaps a different story.”

 

“A story you feel like telling?”

 

A small smile quirked the corners of Daelyn’s pretty mouth. “Maybe. Though I think _showing_ is more . . . _comprehensive_ than telling. And more fun.”

 

 _Right, then. This has gone_ beyond _aimless flirting! What are we_ doing _?!_ Alistair’s brain screamed at him. _What am_ I _doing?! Am I . . . propositioning this apparently kinky little Scot for some sort of . . . sexual encounter? Despite his youth, he’s clearly got more of a certain kind of a sexual experience than I—and he’s_ definitely flirting back! _Oh, dear, what does he expect from me? Is it something I_ want _to give? Something I_ can _give? I certainly want to give him_ something _, alright. . . ._

 

While Alistair’s mouth was saying: “Hmm . . . you _did_ say the best way to learn to be an Alpha was through example. And I can’t say as I’d mind you showing me what it takes to be a good one.”

 

Daelyn studied Alistair from under his long lashes. “And what makes you think _I_ know what it takes to be a good Alpha?”

 

His right eyebrow lifting pointedly, Alistair glanced at Dog, who had joined Leli at the drinking fountain. She was using her hand to aim jets of water at Dog, who was barking and bounding around the fountain as he tried to slurp up the water she shot at him. Leli was giggling and snickering.

 

Alistair looked back at Daelyn. “Let’s just say that if that moron-dog of Leli’s can spot a good Alpha, then so can I,” he said, and Daelyn blushed again.

 

“Perhaps you’re both wrong,” he suggested, looking down, his smooth brow furrowed, now. Then he met Alistair’s gaze again. “I can _act_ like an Alpha, when necessary. Even enough to teach a dog to behave. But I’m _not_ an Alpha. Not really. I get a thrill from being in charge, I won’t lie. But ultimately . . . I derive more pleasure from submission.”

 

Alistair actually _did_ groan, now, as an electric jolt rocketed through him, standing every hair on end, bringing a burning flush to his skin, and causing a tingling heat in his groin and at the base of his spine: all things that he hadn’t felt since well before he and Morrigan had divorced.

 

It was raw, unchecked—but oh, so _focused_ — _desire_.

 

“Then why, may I ask, are you _so_ good at taking the reins, as it were?” Alistair breathed. Daelyn’s eyes were dilating as he gazed into them, until only a thin ring of grey-green was still visible and his face was Wuzzle-pink.

 

Whatever signals Alistair was putting out, Daelyn was certainly responding to them favorably.

 

“Because—” Daelyn licked his lips and took a deep breath that shook just a tiny bit. “Because even the most deferential and shy sub must be smart enough to realize only _he_ can teach his Dom how to treat him.”

 

“ _Dom_ , eh?” At Alistair’s interrogative, Daelyn turned beet-red, and nodded once, almost defensively. “I take it, then, we’re no longer just talking about dogs, and the training, thereof?”

 

“Were we ever?” Daelyn murmured, lowering his gaze, but tilting his chin up and head back a little. Subtle, but definite: A sign of submission as old as time and of which even Alistair understood the significance.

 

Like a dash of cold water, Alistair suddenly realized—to an extent—that he didn’t really know _what_ he was courting with this indecorously fast, rather intense flirtation. That he was not only out of his depth, but perhaps disastrously so. After all, if he couldn’t even satisfactorily be the Alpha in his own home, then how on Earth could he even presume to take on a clearly experienced submissive in an arena with which he’d proven less than facile?

 

Swallowing, Alistair watched Daelyn stand patiently, head tilted back, eyes lowered so that they were almost shut, even as his body—otherwise still—listed a bit toward Alistair’s.

 

“If a man who . . . knew _nothing_ about being a good, er, _Dom_ , wanted to be _your_ Dom, maybe . . . what would you recommend he do to learn? So he could . . . please you . . . and keep up with you?”

 

Daelyn’s eyes met Alistair’s again, still mostly pupil. And his breathing had accelerated just enough that Alistair noticed.

 

“ _I_ would recommend that he invite me over tomorrow morning, any time after eight a.m., and let me begin his education in and exploration of the exquisite art of BDSM,” the dog-trainer said, hints of another smile curving his lips—for a moment, anyway, then he was biting his lip again and gazing up at Alistair hopefully. “For your edification . . . submission to my—to _a_ Dom isn’t _just_ about submission, for me. Nor is, erm, training someone to be a Dom. I, em . . . I get off on it. Sexually.”

 

Alistair blinked. “You mean, some people _don’t_?” he asked, shifting a bit and tugging down on his blue flannel shirt to hide the evidence of his growing excitement. Daelyn smirked knowingly, but nodded. “Then what on Earth are they in it for?”

 

Daelyn chuckled and moved a bit closer to Alistair. Close enough that Alistair could smell his scent, all sweet-bright-dark: vanilla-mint-musk. It was enough to drive another helpless groan from Alistair’s throat and Daelyn smirked once more.

 

“They’re in it for their own reasons, obviously: be it comfort, safety, familiarity, emotional or mental release—what-have-you.”

 

Leaning closer, himself, and letting Daelyn’s addictive scent and lovely eyes sweep him up and along the road of this unorthodox flirtation, Alistair hummed. “Are _you_ in it for those things, as well as the sexual thrill?”

 

“To an extent, yes.” A delicate shrug and spread hands accompanied this admission. “But the sexual component is . . . a deal-maker, for me. A must-have.” That amused gaze turned worried. “Is . . . that something you might want, eventually . . . once you’ve got your feet wet, so to speak? To dominate me sexually, as well as the rest of it?”

 

Alistair was quick and eager to nod, looking Daelyn over, imagining all the things he wanted to do to and with that slim, graceful frame. None of his imaginings beyond spanking some color into that creamy skin were specific; rather, they were amorphous imaginings of Daelyn tied down in some fashion, or on his knees and staring up at Alistair beseechingly, begging to be allowed to come. . . .

 

Shaking his head a little to recall himself to the present, Alistair grinned, huge and dopey. “Yes. Very much. It’s safe to say that whatever we do, I want sex— _with you_ —to be an important component.”

 

 That pretty, amused smile made a comeback and Alistair returned it, throwing caution—and what-ifs—to the wind. It'd been far too long since he'd wanted _anything_ for himself . . . let alone this _badly._

 

Fears—and total ignorance and inexperience—aside, he meant to _have it._

 

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> How'm I doin'?
> 
> Come see me on [The Tumbles](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com), too!


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